New Year's Eve
by BlueVase
Summary: Turnadette modern AU. When Shelagh's appartment gets shut down after a fire, she has nowhere else to go on New Year's Eve than her colleague and month-long crush, Doctor Turner. As she lives there, she slowly starts to become obsessed with Patrick's first wife, Marianne. I used vibes from Du Maurier's 'Rebecca' for this fic. TW: Car crash, discussions of death, guilt.
1. Chapter 1

Shelagh hadn't planned on visiting her colleague at New Year's Eve unannounced, but she hadn't planned on her apartment being damaged due to a fire started by her neighbours, either. Now, she stood in front of Doctor Turner's door, willing herself to ring the bell. She had somehow expected him to live in a bigger house, maybe Victorian or Edwardian. Instead, he lived in a modern apartment.

"He doesn't need much, it just being him and Timothy," she told herself. "Not since his wife died in a car crash years ago. Like my mother." She shifted her bag from one hand to the other, inhaled deeply, and rang. It took roughly two minutes before the door opened. Doctor Turner's eyes – those delightful hazel eyes that she could surely drown in, would she let herself- widened in surprise as he took her in.

"Nurse Mannion," he said, "Is something wrong? Am I needed at the hospital?" His hair was delightfully ruffled. He wore a smart button-down shirt that matched his navy jeans. There was a stain on the collar. The sleeves were rolled up, showing off his arms dusted with dark hair.

Shelagh blushed and lowered her eyes, trying not to get distracted by the bit of hair that was visible on his chest; he hadn't done up all buttons. "No, Doctor Turner. It's just that… There was a fire in my apartment block. Nothing too serious," she added as his eyes grew big, "but there was a lot of smoke. None of the tenants are allowed to go back tonight, and I had nowhere else to go, with my family living in Scotland, and all the trains already departed… and I suppose I could've gone to one of the nurses, but I don't expect they're home, not at New Year's Eve…"

"Of course. Come in," he said, stepping aside to admit her entrance.

"Thank you," she murmured. Her glasses fogged over in the hallway. Her cold fingers struggled with the buttons on her coat.

"Are you all right? Nothing damaged?" Doctor Turner asked.

"No, I'm perfectly fine. I don't know about the apartment, though."

"Here, let me take that," the doctor said, taking the bag from her. His work-roughened thumb brushed her knuckles. She shivered.

"This doesn't weigh anything," he said.

"I didn't have time to pack anything much," she said. "I just took my phone, my toothbrush, and some clothes. Oh, and my Bible." It had her name embossed in gold on the cover. Her mother had given it to her when she turned five. She took her glasses from her nose and wiped them on her scarf.

"Wise choices, Nurse," he said. She couldn't be sure, not without her glasses, but he seemed to wink at her. "Let me put the kettle on," he said, and disappeared into the house.

"I'm really awfully sorry. I'm sure this isn't how you planned on spending your evening," Shelagh said as she trailed after him.

"I was going to spend it watching awful films, drinking alcohol, and eating too much chocolate and Turkish Delight," he said from the kitchen, "so your visit is a most welcome distraction, really."

"What about Timothy?" Sometimes, the doctor took his six year-old son with him to the hospital, when there was no one who could mind the child. Shelagh loved sitting with Timothy. She had a set of coloured pencils and crayons in her locker just for him.

"He's in bed. Poor mite was tired as you won't believe. I promised to wake him just before the new year starts. He wants to see the fireworks," Doctor Turner said. "We can wake him as I show you the guest bedroom." He fiddled with his sleeves, pushing them up further. He had a band aid on one of his hands, those big hands that had brushed hers just a moment ago, that would probably fit perfectly over…

 _Stop it._

"Can I help?" Shelagh asked, dawdling on the threshold into the kitchen.

The electric kettle had started humming. The counter was full of dirty dishes; plates with half-eaten slices of pizza, mugs with coffee that looked like it had solidified, forks that stuck to pans…

"I haven't had time to clean that yet," Doctor Turner murmured, turning away from her. She still saw the flash of crimson that shot into his face, though. He stacked some plates together, looked at some of the cups to see if there were two that he could still use.

"It's a job for two, anyway," she said. She pulled her jumper over her head, threw it on one of the kitchen chairs, and filled the sink with hot water. "Better not get that plaster of yours wet," she said. She opened one of the cabinets, found a pair of rubber gloves, and put them on.

"You don't have to," he said as she tried to prise some spaghetti off a plate.

"Nonsense. I feel bad enough for coming here in the first place," she said.

"Don't," he replied.

She looked up, her eyes locking with his. Another shiver climbed up her spine. Doctor Turner – she could've looked up his first name on Facebook, but she'd felt that it was something he should offer her herself, as if it was a gift- swallowed. There was a wrinkle next to his mouth. She wanted to reach out and smooth it with her thumb, but she was holding a plate. Besides, she was wearing yellow rubber gloves.

She dunked the plate in the hot, soapy water. "The sooner we get this done, the sooner you can get back to your couch and chocolates," she quipped, praying he'd think her red cheeks were due to the steaming water.

"You make me wish I'd actually gotten something decent to eat, like olives and cheese, or those little sausages they always seem to have at cocktail parties," Doctor Turner said. She handed him the cleaned plate so he could dry it.

"I'm a vegetarian," she said.

"Oh." He put the dried plate away, then walked to the fridge and opened it. "How do you feel about… half a jar of pickles, some onions in vinegar, and half a bell pepper?" He took the bell pepper out of the fridge and grimaced. "Scratch the bell pepper," he said, and dropped it in the trash.

"I like pickles," she reassured him. She put another wet mug on the rack to dry.

"I've also got milk and cereal, or some stale biscuits."

"And chocolates and a box of Turkish Delight," she said.

"Half a box, but yes. Praise my patients." He grinned. "And a bottle of very good red wine, if you're feeling up to it, Nurse Mannion. What do you say? Is it a night to imbibe?"

"Unless you propose we become completely decadent and drink it straight from the bottle, we really need to get these dishes done."

"We're not that naughty yet, I suppose," he said. He took up the towel and started drying.

"Naughty Nurse Mannion and Devious Doctor Turner," she joked.

He winked, which turned her insides liquid. She blushed some more, and wished she'd put on something else than her scuffed boots, a pair of faded jeans, and a ratty jumper. The T-shirt she wore under it had a permanent ketchup stain at the bottom, but she'd tucked her shirt into her jeans, so she was pretty sure the doctor wouldn't see.

 _Do stop it,_ she told herself. It was one thing to have a massive crush on her colleague, to have it for months and months, and to go to him because there was nowhere else to go, but quite another to go breathless and giggly and ridiculous any time he did something nice. Like touching her hand. Or winking. Or pushing those sleeves a little higher. Some nights when she woke up and felt alone, she'd think of his face, of his pleasant voice and big hands, till a tiny throb started between her legs and she was quite breathless.

"I prefer pickles over onions," she stammered.

"And chocolate over Turkish Delight?"

She nodded.

"What a perfect pair we make," he said, and smiled.

 _I know,_ she thought.

After the dishes were clean and gleaming and returned to their proper places, Shelagh and Doctor Turner crashed on the couch. It was a leather one –"leather is a lot more forgiving with spilled juice"- in a rich blue. Doctor Turner had put some pickles on a plate, and chocolates and Turkish Delight on another. Shelagh chose one shaped like a Christmas stocking and ate it slowly as she nursed her cup of tea.

"What do you want to watch? There's plenty of films on the telly tonight, but we can always go to Netflix and pick another one."

"Which ones are on right now?"

Doctor Turner took out his phone. "Come and have a look," he said. She had to scoot over and sit next to him to do it. Her hair brushed his face. She pushed a tendril behind her ear, stubbornly training her eyes on the small screen of his smartphone. She could feel his breath gently ghosting past her cheek, though, could feel the heat of his jean-clad leg as it almost pressed against hers. He wore some spicy aftershave that had almost worn off during the day; only the base note lingered now. It had mixed with the detergent they used in the hospital, and with something else that Shelagh couldn't name.

"There's a romantic comedy you might like," he said, voice hushed since she was so near him.

 _We sound like conspirators, or lovers._

"Would you like that?" he murmured.

 _He could put his arm around me. I could turn my face to his, and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him…_

"Kiss me," she said.

He blinked, his long lashes throwing feathered shadows on his cheekbones. "What?"

"Kiss me, Kate. It's one of the films that's on tonight," she stammered, blushing. "See?" She pointed to his phone.

"Ah. Well, let's watch that, then." He stood up to grab the remote control. Shelagh felt the loss of his warmth and scent keenly. She kicked her boots off, tucked her feet under her, and hugged herself.

Doctor Turner sat down farther from her than before. She thought she saw his fists uncurl then tighten again from the corner of her eye, as if he wanted to do something with them, as if he wanted to touch her. She might have been wrong, though.

The film ended at half past eleven. Doctor Turner stretched as soon as the credits started to roll. His joints popped. He winced and rubbed his shoulders. "Don't ever get old, Nurse Mannion. It wreaks havoc on your joints."

"You're not old," she softly scolded him.

"Older than you, at any rate."

"A lot of the doctors at the hospital are. Now, I'll go and use the ladies' room, if you don't mind," she said, getting up from the couch with joints that didn't creak.

"The bathroom is up the stairs, first door on your left."

"I'll deposit my toothbrush there for later, then. Thanks." She zipped her bag open, took out her toothbrush and deodorant, and made for the bathroom.

The Turner household had and old-fashioned tub on gilded legs. The spout had the shape of a lion's head. Shelagh stroked it, then applied some fresh deodorant and studied herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed. She touched them with her fingertips, feeling the warmth seep from skin to skin. She'd have to wish the doctor a happy new year in less than half an hour. If they'd already woken Timothy, that might mean she would not get carried away by her own romantic feelings. Afterwards, she would slip into the guestroom, put on her pyjamas, and try to sleep in an unfamiliar bed. Hopefully, she would be able to move back into her apartment tomorrow. She didn't want to put the doctor out, and hotels were rather expensive at this time of year. She could always ask one of the nurses if she could stay with them, she supposed.

"It's just one night," she told her reflection. Good thing, too; she hadn't brought much clothes with her. There was only what she wore now, and clean underwear, another T-shirt, and her pyjamas. She could hardly let the doctor see her in those, though. Just thinking of the lacey nightdress made her blush. It had been a bit of a lark when she'd bought it, egged on by Trixie and the other nurses. Her real pyjamas had been in need of a wash, though, and there had been so little time to pick what to bring and what to leave behind…

She took care of her bursting bladder, washed her hands, and went back to the living room. She stopped dead on the threshold.

Doctor Turner was holding up her rather daring nightgown and staring at it with knit eyebrows, his mouth a little 'o'. Blood shot to her cheeks. She marched in and snatched it from his hands, stuffing it in her bag. The silk slithered over her hands. It refused to be put out of sight completely. "It was in the bag for a reason," Shelagh said, not looking at the doctor. She was blushing so fiercely that tears stood in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Doctor Turner said, voice thick. "Your bag fell over. I didn't mean to look at your possessions."

"Maybe I can still go to a hotel. I'm sorry I came here. We're only colleagues, after all, and…"

He took her hand. She stilled, but couldn't bring herself to face him.

"Please look at me," he whispered.

Helpless, she obeyed.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I'm sorry I looked into your bag. I shouldn't have. And I'm sorry for what I'm about to do."

"What are you about…" she started, but then, he kissed her, and she couldn't talk anymore. He had cupped her face with two hands, but one now slid down her throat and shoulder and came to rest in the small of her back. She slung her arms around his neck, her knees far weaker than she could have imagined. He tasted of Turkish Delight and wine.

 _I could get drunk on him and him alone,_ she thought.

He slipped the tip of his tongue between her lips and curled it upwards. The tiny throb that she sometimes stilled when she was alone in her bed came alive purringly. Something in her belly coiled. She sighed into his mouth, one hand at the nape of his neck, brushing the little hairs that grew there. "Don't be sorry," she said when they broke their kiss.

He walked her back till she fell on the couch, her head hitting the pillow propped in one of its corner. "I've imagined doing this for a very long time," Doctor Turner said, sitting down in the space between her legs.

"How long?" she asked.

"For months. Maybe longer," he confessed. He took her face between his hands again and nipped her bottom lip.

The throb was pain now. She pulled him closer, moaning as she felt his weight on her. "I've loved you from the moment I knew you," she admitted, her voice tremulous and breathy.

"It sometimes feels to me I've loved you even longer than that." With the hand he wasn't using to keep himself propped up he caressed her breast. Her back arched. She shivered, even though she was burning.

"Doctor Turner," she moaned.

"Do call me Patrick, Nurse Mannion." Offered like a gift, like she imagined.

"Patrick," she said, rolling the 'r' like a pebble in her mouth, breath catching on the 'k'. "Only if you call me Shelagh."

"Shelagh," he promised, kissing her before she could say anything more, every kiss punctuated by fireworks outside. Their light painted the living room yellow and orange and red and green.

"Is that why you came here tonight?" he whispered between kisses. "Because you imagined doing this too?"

"I've never done this before," she said.

His hands stilled. She opened her eyes, studying him between her lashes. He was smiling, the wrinkle beside his mouth more prominent than ever. She touched it with a trembling finger, following its course from his cheek to his chin. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

He took her hand and kissed every fingertip. "Nothing, my darling, my Shelagh. It's just… It's a rather big thing to take from you. Maybe we should save it for another time, when I haven't had too much to drink." He winked. "Maybe we should do this when you're wearing that rather daring nightgown."

She smiled. "Do you think so?"

"Yes. There's no hurry, is there?"

"Well, I've no idea when I'm allowed back into my apartment…"

He laughed at that, pulled her up, and took her in his arms. "Have you seen the time?" he murmured in her ear.

"No."

"The new year has started. Happy new year, Shelagh."

"Happy new year, Patrick. Shouldn't we wake Timothy? He'll be so disappointed if he won't see the fireworks," Shelagh said, resting her forehead against Patrick's.

"We should," he agreed, but they stood in each other's embrace for a good while yet, reluctant to let the other go now that they had found each other.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for being my beta!**

Shelagh woke feeling warm and fuzzy and unbelievably happy. She sighed, stretched, and touched her lips with her fingertips. They felt raw and swollen.

"He kissed me," she said, and smiled.

She could imagine feeling his stubbled cheek rubbing her throat, his big hands on her shoulders, her hips, his breath tickling the nape of her neck…

She shivered and rubbed her legs together, revelling in the pocket of warmth trapped between the mattress and the blankets, revelling in her memories.

"I love him, and he loves me," she said. Her mouth hurt as her smile widened.

She offered a little prayer of thanks, then got up. She straightened the bed, after which she opened the bedroom door to make her way to the bathroom. A pair of socks, a folded jumper, and a note lay before the guestroom.

 _I've put your clothes in the washing machine because they smelled of smoke. I didn't want to tell you yesterday (was afraid it would make you self-conscious ;-) ). You can wear something of mine._

She smiled, and hugged the jumper to her chest. It was the colour of porridge and was really rather ugly, but it was warm, and it was his.

Shelagh went to the bathroom. She brushed her teeth as she ran herself a bath. She found a bar of scented soap tucked away in a corner of the medicine cabinet, and decided Patrick surely wouldn't mind her using it.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne!" she sang as she combed her hands through her tresses. She lathered her hair with soap, getting rid of the smell of smoke and wine. "For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, for auld lang syne."

She continued singing the song softly to herself as she dried her hair and body, as she slipped back into her scandalous nightdress and put on the knitted socks too large for her. The jumper may have been in a shade that spoke of sadness, but it was warm and soft. It reached almost to her knees.

Patrick and Timothy were not awake yet, so Shelagh set the table. She found that the Turner household was equipped with a dishwasher, but it seemed to be out of order. There were also several sets of china, most of them incomplete. Shelagh picked plates with flowers on the rim, and chose the matching saucers and teacups.

She popped out to get some groceries, wearing some of Patrick's jeans she fished from the laundry basket that weren't terribly dirty. They were far too big, and she had to use a belt and roll the cuffs up endlessly. At least her coat was a long one, and hid a multitude of sins.

She had to take the tube to find a supermarket that was open. She bought a bottle of milk, a dozen eggs, sausages, a loaf of brown bread, a bag of pasta, tins of tomato sauce, aubergines, bell peppers and tomatoes. She also picked a fresh jar of pickles and another bottle of wine. When she got back, the Turners were still fast asleep.

Shelagh put the groceries away, returned the jeans to the laundry basket, and checked on the washing machine. She put the laundry in the dryer, and filled the washing machine with more dirty clothes. Either Patrick had not washed in a long time, or a man alone and his little son caused more washing than Shelagh had imagined.

She started to make breakfast by boiling some eggs.

Timothy came into the kitchen just as she was pouring herself a cup of tea. His hair stood out in great spikes. He wore a red bathrobe and pyjamas with little duckies. "Mummy?" he murmured, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

A dull, throbbing pain started in the pit of her stomach. "No, Timothy. It's only me, Shelagh, remember?"

How often had she thought her mother had been in the house even after the funeral?

"Oh." Timothy looked more awake now. He smiled sheepishly at her. "I thought it was Mummy. She always sang _auld lang syne._ I thought I heard her sing it."

"I'm sorry, Timothy. It was me."

He sat down at the kitchen table. "Your singing is prettier," he said.

Shelagh smiled at him. "Do you want porridge, or scrambled eggs?"

"I usually have cornflakes because Daddy never has time to make a proper breakfast." He frowned as he thought. "I think I'd like scrambled eggs," he decided.

She cooked some sausages for him, too. "There you go, dearest," she said.

Timothy beamed up happily at her. "I thought I dreamed you last night."

"No, you didn't."

"What is going to happen to your house now?"

Shelagh sat down opposite of him, cradling her cup of tea. She should eat something, but she was far too happy to be properly hungry. "I don't know. I suppose I should go there today, and see if I can get some of my stuff."

"Will you stay here with us?"

"I hope so," she said.

He touched her hand and squeezed it hard. "I hope you stay. You could have Mummy's closet. You smell like her."

 _The soap,_ Shelagh thought, _it must've been Marianne's._

She took her dainty teacup in her hand, cradling its weight. Marianne must have picked this, together with the pretty lace tablecloth, the leather couch, the square plates…

She was everywhere in this house still. Even her scent now enveloped Shelagh. Was it like a hand at Shelagh's throat, or a soft caress? What would Marianne think of this woman in her house, wanting to share her husband's bed?

Shelagh suddenly felt like an intruder.

 _Marianne seemed like a nice woman. She wouldn't want Patrick to be unhappy,_ Shelagh thought, but it sounded feeble, weak. Using his name seemed wrong now. _Like using the soaps of a dead woman,_ she thought. Then, more savagely, _You know nothing about Marianne. You only met her once…_

She had been working on A&E the first and only time she met Doctor Turner's wife. It had been a hectic evening. It had rained, and when the temperature had dipped below zero, the puddles had frozen into ice, making the roads treacherous and slippery. The waiting room had been full of people with broken bones, with concussions.

Then, they had been told there had been a horrible car accident. Shelagh had wanted to ask to be excused, but they were already short-staffed, over-worked. By the time she'd worked up the courage to ask her superior to let her do something else, anything else, the ambulance had already arrived, and she simply had to help.

Doctor Gillespie cursed when his patient was wheeled in. "Fucking hell."

Marianne's pink coat was flecked with blood. She had a scratch on her face that had bled and plastered her hair to her forehead and cheek. She had cried a little, but her tears had frozen. Her hazel eyes were half-lidded.

She had lost both her feet in the accident. Someone had tried to stop the bleeding by tying a leather belt around her left leg. The other leg was bound by a dainty red belt that looked far too small to go around someone's hip. It was only days afterwards that Shelagh realised it belonged to Marianne, and had gone around her waist, cinching the flowered dress she wore. Someone must've taken it from her and used it to try and save her from bleeding out on the iced-over tarmac.

Shelagh smelled blood and ice. For a moment she was thrown back into time, when she was still a little girl and had sat strapped in the back of a car that had folded like an accordion, her mother's blood hot as it drip-drip-dripped down.

"Marianne Turner. That's Doctor Turner's wife. Fucking hell. Someone ought to tell the poor bastard," Doctor Gillespie said.

"Marianne, can you hear me?" Shelagh asked. Her hands shook. She clasped the edge of the stretcher till her knuckles were white. Marianne's hand startled open. Shelagh grasped it between her own. It was startlingly cold. She rubbed it, trying to get some warmth back into it.

"We need to get her to theatre and stop her from bleeding out. We need to give her a blood transfusion too, and check for internal injuries," Doctor Gillespie continued.

Shelagh remembered those words very clearly. There were other moments that stood out starkly in her mind, too, even though everything else was one nauseating blur.

Marianne's eyes locking with Shelagh, full of pain and pleading, before the anaesthetic made her eyelids flutter shut.

Her split lip starting to bleed.

Her hand opening and closing as electricity tore through her, every futile burst of it trying to make her heart start beating again.

When it became clear that Mrs Marianne Turner had passed on and could not be revived, Shelagh stumbled out of the room, out of the hospital. She must've slipped on a patch of ice and fallen, because the next thing she remembered was sitting on a bench with smarting knees and a bloody hand, trying to light a cigarette with trembling fingers. She was not normally a smoker, but kept a package and a lighter in her bag for emergencies. She whispered a prayer under her breath, over and over again.

The wind snuffed the flame every time, and she couldn't get her cigarette to burn. Her hands were cold.

"Here, let me," a friendly voice said, and a large hand shielded her cigarette from the harsh wind as another plucked the lighter from her hand and lit her cigarette.

"Thank you," Shelagh murmured. She almost dropped her cigarette, then managed to get it to her mouth. She took a deep drag.

"Has something happened?" the man asked. He sat down next to her. He had friendly eyes, Shelagh noted, and little wrinkles from laughing next to his mouth and eyes.

"I couldn't save her," Shelagh whispered, tears blurring her vision.

"One of your patients?"

She nodded.

"Don't beat yourself up about it. That sometimes happens," he said. He pushed his floppy hair from his forehead and sighed. "No matter how hard we try, we can't save them all."

"But I feel as if I didn't try hard enough. She'd been in a car accident, and I…" Shelagh shook her head. "I can't stand them," she whispered, and tried to wipe her tears away.

"You've hurt your hand," he noted. He took it between his rough, calloused palms. "Nurse, let me take you inside and look at your hand. It's far too cold to be out dressed only in your uniform anyway."

She wanted to argue, but then he'd already thrown her cigarette away, had already helped her up and was steering her inside, away from A&E, to another wing of the hospital. "We can't just go in," she murmured.

"I'm a doctor. Don't worry," the man said, hands warm on her shoulders. He took her through what seemed to be endless corridors, up endless flights of stairs. She didn't mind; she liked his warmth, his scent. It couldn't wash away that other scent, that reek of blood and antiseptics, but it softened them somewhat.

He brought her to a small room with a sink and a chair. She sat down obediently as he draped his coat around her, then soaped and washed his hands.

"I'm sorry. I'm not normally like this. I thought I was made of sterner stuff," she said, looking at her hand.

"We're not made of stone. It's all right to feel," he said. He took her hand again and plucked the grit from it with a pair of tweezers. She bore it without wincing.

"But I'm a nurse. I shouldn't freeze when I have patients to tend," she murmured.

"I work on the obstetrics department. The first time a woman went into labour, I almost fainted," he said, and laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound, startlingly loud and infectious. She smiled despite herself.

"I want to work there," she told him.

"You do?"

"I love babies. It seems like such a good thing, to help bring new life into the world…"

 _No car accidents at the obstetrics department._

"There's a post coming up. One of our nurses is getting married. She's going to move to Ireland."

"Really?"

"Yes. You might enjoy working with us. We're a nice old bunch."

Shelagh looked at his hands as they took care of her injury. They were chapped and rough, but they held hers lightly, softly, almost tenderly. She could imagine hands such as these cradling new-borns, stroking their slick heads.

"I've never seen you before," she admitted.

"It's a large hospital," he said, and shrugged.

They were silent as he disinfected her grazed palm and put a plaster on it.

"There, all done now. Are you feeling a little better?"

"Yes. Thank you, Doctor…?"

"Turner."

She looked up. Her heart thundered through her chest. Her feet turned cold.

 _"Marianne Turner. That's Doctor Turner's wife. Fucking hell. Someone ought to tell the poor bastard…"_

His phone started to ring. It sounded shrill and unnatural, blaring. Doctor Turner sighed and rolled his eyes. "That must be the hospital. I try to give them a jolly ringtone, but I can never find a proper one."

He tried to let go of her hand. She tightened her grip. "Don't answer it," she whispered. _Stay here with me, in blessed ignorance, oh please…_

He looked at her strangely, but then his left hand had already fished the little device from his pocket, had already accepted the call and brought his phone to his ear.

His face turned the colour of curdled milk. He smiled a strained smile. "That can't be right," he said, "Marianne is at home, with our son. She can't be…"

His eyes shifted to Shelagh. Her heart thudded painfully loud. That and Doctor Turner's digits turning limp and cold as she held them in her wounded hand were the only things she could feel.

He lowered the phone and thrust it in his pocket almost angrily. "They've made a mistake," he muttered.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"It can't be right." The turned to her. "They say my wife was brought in. They say she died." He smiled that horrible smile again. "It can't be right, now can it? You work at A&E. It wasn't Marianne who died, now was it?"

She started to cry again.

His smile vanished. "Please tell me it wasn't her," he rasped.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…"

He opened and closed his hands. "It can't be right," he repeated. Then, he shot to the door, and ran. Shelagh stumbled as she got up to go after him. He was tall, but she was fast. She didn't lose sight of him as they thundered through the hospital hallways, down staircase after staircase. It was only at A&E that she hesitated. But then there was a cry of pain, a howl more animal than human, and her feet made the decision for her and propelled her on.

Doctor Turner's cry raised all the hairs on her arms and neck. A little voice told her to turn around; surely she wasn't made to withstand such a torrent of another person's grief? She ignored it, and went on.

Doctor Turner stood with his head thrown back, his hands pressed against his eyes. His howl had petered out to a soft groaning, a hoarse sobbing.

"I'm sorry," Shelagh whispered. She pulled his hands from his eyes; he was pressing with too much force. "Let me take you somewhere else," she said, feeling the stares of other people burn them. He let her lead him to an unoccupied room as meekly as a child, still uttering that horrible choking sound.

She sat him down on the hospital bed with its perfectly made covers, and closed the door behind them with a soft _snick._

"She was at home," Doctor Turner groaned, "she was at home with Timothy."

She sat down next to him. "I'm sorry. We did what we could."

He grabbed her hand with horrible force. He stared at her with wild eyes. "How could it happen? How could it? Marianne, oh Marianne…" He dissolved into sobs, his body slumping against hers.

"I'm sorry," Shelagh repeated. His tears plastered her uniform against her throat and collar bones. She rocked him, pressed a kiss against his forehead. His arms snaked around her, fingers clawing in her shirt.

 _I love him,_ she thought. It was a bizarre thing to think; she had known this man less than an hour.

And yet it was true.

 _I love him._


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing. Let the** ** _Rebecca_** **vibes slowly begin!**

"Shelagh?"

Shelagh blinked, put the cup down, then took her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. "Sorry, dearest, what was that?" she asked, turning to Timothy. He'd touched her with a sticky hand.

"You seemed miles away," he said.

"Just thinking," she said, giving him a soft smile.

"Oh." He fiddled with his spoon. "May I see that Bible you brought with you?" he asked.

"My Bible? All right, I suppose. Go and wash your hands whilst I fetch it."

Timothy had used a generous amount of soap; the scent of fresh pine hung thickly around him when Shelagh came back.

"Your father isn't very religious, now is he?" Shelagh asked.

Timothy shook his head. "No, but Mummy was."

 _Marianne,_ Shelagh thought. She seemed to smell the metallic tang of blood. She shivered, and quickly sat down on the living room couch with her Bible in her lap. Timothy sat down next to her. He reached out to touch her book, then hesitated.

"It's all right," Shelagh said.

He traced her name embossed in gold on the cover with his slender fingers. "Mummy has a Bible like that too, but with her name on it. 'Marianne Turner' it says. Dad gave it to her when they were married."

"Did he?"

Timothy nodded. "But now he has put it out of sight somewhere. He says he'll give it to me when I'm older." He looked up at her. There was an infinite depth in his eyes. "Sometimes I think he doesn't have it anymore, and he hopes I forget about it."

"I'm sure that's not the case," Shelagh said. "My mother gave me this Bible for one of my birthdays." She opened it and showed him the looping scrawl on the first page.

 _For my darling Shelagh. I hope it will give you comfort in all your days. Love, Mummy._

"The paper is really thin, isn't it?" Timothy said.

"That's because there's so many pages. Just imagine what a Bible would look like if they used thick paper."

"It would be huge!" Timothy held out his arms. "This big!"

He almost knocked the Bible from her lap. She caught it in time, but something fluttered from between the pages.

"Sorry," Timothy muttered, already stooping to pick it up. He looked at it as he straightened up to give it back to her, a faint frown between his brows. "Is this you?" he asked.

Shelagh gently took the picture from him and put it on top of her book. "Yes."

It was a picture of her as a little girl. She wore ribbons in her hair, and smiled at the camera.

"Is this your mother?" Timothy asked, pointing to the woman next to the little girl.

"Yes," Shelagh whispered. The woman had turned her head at the moment the photograph was shot, causing her face to blur. She had honey-coloured curls dancing around her face, and small hands. The photograph was faded, one of the corners ripped off.

"It's not a very good picture of her, is it?" Timothy asked.

"No, but it's the only one I have. My father ripped up every picture of her after she died."

How he'd howled as he tore every one of them apart. He'd brought them outside and poured gasoline over them before setting them on fire. Shelagh had watched him from her bedroom window, her leg still in its plaster cast. She'd cried and screamed at him later when she'd realised what exactly it was he'd been burning.

"Why would he do that?" Timothy asked.

Shelagh put the photograph between the pages of her Bible. "People sometimes do strange things when they're hurting," she said.

"I'm sorry," Timothy said. Then, "How did she die?"

"In a car accident."

 _Shelagh tried to move, but her leg was a throbbing mass of pain. The car had folded up on itself. Cold wind tugged at her hair. Something warm and wet dripped on her foot. She'd lost her shoes and one of her socks. The other one was ripped. They were her favourite pair of socks, with little dinosaurs._

 _"Mummy?"_

 _Light suddenly illuminated the car._

 _A small, pale hand lay next to Shelagh's bare foot._

 _She screamed._

Shelagh shivered, and tried to stifle the guilt that always reared its ugly head when she thought about that day.

"My Mummy died in a car accident too," Timothy said. He left the room and came back with a photo frame. "Here. This is my mother," he said, and tapped the glass with a fingernail that needed cutting.

The picture showed Patrick, Marianne and Timothy at their dinner table. Timothy was still very young, and wore a party hat with an elastic string. He'd almost planted his hands in the birthday cake in front of him. Marianne held his sticky hands in hers and waved them to the camera. She was wearing a cherry-red dress and had pushed her curls behind her ears, only for them to bounce around her head more freely.

She looked very pretty.

"That's a lovely picture, Timothy," she said.

"Yes." He put the frame on the coffee table. "Sometimes I don't want to see it because it makes me miss her," he confessed.

"I'm sorry. No child should grow up without a mother."

"It was a very long time ago." He paused, then continued, "but I don't think I'll ever stop missing her. I thought it was her singing this morning. I sometimes watch the clips Daddy made of her, of us, but her voice doesn't sound the same as it did when she was alive."

Shelagh smiled at him, but her vision swam with tears. "I can't remember my mother's face. I can't remember her voice. It all fades away, no matter how much I cling to it. It's like sand sifting between my fingers."

"I know," Timothy said. "I know how it hurts."

"I know you do." She clasped his hand. Was he too old for a hug? His limbs were gangly, his pyjama with the little duckies far too short at the legs and arms. He threw his arms around her neck before she could decide. He smelled of his father; Patrick probably didn't always remember to buy children's shampoo.

"How about you get dressed and we go and look at my apartment? Get some fresh air?" she whispered in his hair.

"What about Dad?"

"We'll leave him a note, and some breakfast."

"All right."

Shelagh listened with growing horror to the firefighter who explained her what was going to happen with her possessions. Her apartment had been severely damaged by the fire and smoke. Her clothes could not be salvaged, since most of them were scorched, and not even a specialised firm would be able to take out the stench. All wooden furniture would have to go, too. Electronics would be sent to a firm that would try and repair them.

She shivered in her still-damp jeans, then tugged Timothy along and went inside.

The wallpaper in her apartment had bubbled and blackened. The ceiling had turned several shades of grey. Everything smelled of smoke and fire.

"Good thing you didn't have much furniture," Timothy decided. He dragged a hand through his hair. "Though maybe not. You won't get much from the insurance company if there's only a little furniture that got damaged."

"I'm not insured," Shelagh whispered.

"You're not?"

"Not for this." She picked up a book from the coffee table. The paper had curled and yellowed. The little wooden cross above the door hung crooked. She put the book back. "Let's go home."

Timothy touched a glass paperweight. "You could take this with you," he said, weighing it in his hand.

"My mother brought it with her after a trip to Germany," Shelagh said.

"Let's take it with us, then." He put it in his pocket, then slipped his hand in hers.

They left without looking back.

Patrick was waiting for them. He'd shaved, but still wore the same stained shirt as yesterday. He smiled when they came in. "I was starting to wonder if I had to send out a search party," he quipped as he ruffled Timothy's hair.

"We went to see Shelagh's apartment," Timothy said. He took a slice of toast and buttered it liberally.

"And?" Patrick asked.

Shelagh shook her head. "Everything inside is ruined."

"And she's not insured," Timothy said. He took a mammoth bite from his toast.

"You aren't?" Patrick asked.

"Timothy!" Shelagh softly scolded him, but the boy just shrugged.

"You can stay here with us for as long as you like," Patrick decided. He reached for her hand and stroked her palm with his thumb. She shivered.

"That is kind of you. I can do some more chores. God knows your house needs them," she tried to joke.

"You don't have to," Patrick said. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Was the fire really that bad?"

"Everything's gone. I'll have to ask the hospital to give me the morning off tomorrow so I can at least go and buy some clothes. I can't wear your jumpers all the time."

"Maybe you can borrow some of Mummy's things for the time being," Timothy offered.

Patrick stiffened, and shook his head. "They wouldn't fit," he said, voice thick. He let go of Shelagh's hand.

She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, smelling his aftershave on the long sleeve of his jumper.

 _Maybe Marianne chose that scent for him._

"No, maybe you're right," Timothy said. He wiped his buttery hands on his jeans, then stalked upstairs.

"Come," Patrick said. He led her to the living room and sat her down on the couch. The leather was cool under her touch. "I can always go to a hotel for a while whilst I look for a new apartment," she whispered.

He tucked her under his arm and pressed a kiss against her temple.

"Don't be silly, darling. I wouldn't want you anywhere but here. And I can give you money for clothes if you don't have enough of your own. I like to see you wear nothing but that nightgown and my jumper, but I can't let you go out dressed like that."

She couldn't help herself; she melted against him. Just last night, on this very couch, they'd almost made love. Something inside her coiled and shifted and changed. She reached for his face and kissed him.

He answered her kiss immediately, almost greedily, one hand on her hip to keep her close against him. When they had to break away to breathe she placed her forehead against his throat so she could still breathe him in.

"You smell nice," he murmured against her hair.

 _It's Marianne you smell on me,_ she thought.

She disentangled herself from him and stood, pulling the jumper that he had pushed to her waist down again. "I'll continue to sleep in the guest room," she said.

That night she dreamed of her mother, but her mother wore Marianne's face.

A pale hand touched her foot.

Wet, hot blood dripped on her toes.

Shelagh awoke with the sheets sticking to her sweaty body, her breath thundering through her lungs.

"No," she said.

But no matter how hard she tried, she could not remember what her mother looked like.

All she saw was Marianne's face.


	4. Chapter 4

Since I'm in the States I'm keeping to the American time, which is why this is a bit later than usual. Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.

"Well, all I can say is that you can stay with me if you and Doctor Turner… are not the match you thought you were," Julienne said.

"It's kind of you to offer," Shelagh said, picking up a jumper and looking at its colour critically.

"But?"

Shelagh sighed, folded up the jumper, and placed it back on the shelf. "But I hope it won't be necessary."

* * *

"So do I, but I simply want you to know that you can stay with me if the need arises. God knows it is hard in London to find suitable lodgings, and nurses don't exactly make a lot of money. Say, isn't this pretty?" Julienne held up a cardigan in a soft blue colour.

Shelagh fingered one of the sleeves, then nodded. "I'll try it on." She looked at her watch. "There's not much time left for us to shop, anyway. The hospital needs me."

"Let's make haste then," Julienne said, and scooped up some of the clothes Shelagh had picked.

"Thank you for coming with me," Shelagh said as she ducked into one of the fitting rooms.

"It's my pleasure, my dear."

They had met at a church choir called 'Sisters in Christ'. Julienne was a district nurse, but had worked at the obstetrics department of the local hospital before that. She and Doctor Turner had been friends for a long time, but Shelagh felt that her friendship with Julienne was definitely the stronger one.

"Do you think he'll like this?" Shelagh asked shyly, stepping out of the cubicle to show Julienne a floral dress. She blushed a little. "Not that I dress to please anyone but myself, but…"

"You could wear a garbage bag and he'd still think you lovely, Shelagh," Julienne said.

Shelagh tugged at the sleeves of the dress, wincing as the tag dug one of its corners into her skin. Julienne was probably right. After all, Patrick had fallen in love with her even though she wore stained t-shirts, or blue jumpers that did nothing for her figure, or her uniform.

"I'll try on something different," she said, and went back into the little cubicle. She dragged the dress over her head, hung it back on its hanger. She turned to face the mirror and looked at herself. Her skin was good, and her legs toned from all the running she did. She had been told her laugh was kind, her eyes pretty.

Her eyes travelled to the scar just above her foot. It was an angry red slash. When she'd broken her leg in the car accident that killed her mother, the bone had protruded from that place.

She shivered and gooseflesh pimpled her arms.

Sometimes it felt as if that accident would never go away. It seemed always there, always lurking in the back of her mind, ready to knock her off kilter whenever she felt somewhat secure.

She took the little cross she wore around her neck in her hand. There was so much to be grateful for. She had good friends, and now a man who loved her. There was no need to always go back to that one evening of so many years ago. That was over and done with.

"It doesn't matter what you wear," she whispered to her reflection.

 _But Marianne was so fashionable,_ a sly voice purred.

She had always worn floral dresses, hadn't she?

Appalled, Shelagh turned away from the mirror and threw the dress on the pile of things she wouldn't take.

"Are you all right?" Julienne asked as soon as she emerged from the fitting room.

"Yes, perfectly," Shelagh said, but she couldn't look her in the eye.

Julienne clasped her hand in hers and gave it a firm squeeze.

Shelagh sighed, pulled her hand away, and rubbed her eyes under her glasses. "It's just… I've been thinking an awful lot these past few days, probably too much."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Tears burned behind her eyes. She took her glasses off and wiped them with her shirt – that horrible shirt with the ketchup stain that wouldn't come out no matter how often she washed it -, studying her trembling fingers. "It's just… I can't stop thinking about my mother."

"I know this is a difficult time for you," Julienne said.

"Why can't I stop thinking about it?" Shelagh asked, raising her eyes and meeting those of her friend.

"It was a traumatising event, Shelagh. It…"

"I can't stop thinking about Marianne, either. What was she like?" Shelagh asked. She felt hot, feverish.

Julienne blinked slowly and took Shelagh's hand in hers again, caressing the back of it with a dry-skinned thumb. "Why do you want to know?"

Shelagh shrugged helplessly. "Because I was there when she died. Because I'm in love with her husband, and I'm living with him and their son. She seems to be everywhere in that house." _Yet I can't grasp her. She's elusive, like smoke. Like a ghost. Yet she's so much more than a ghost._

Julienne sighed, and looked away. "She was a sweet woman. The word 'vivacious' comes to mind. She loved life. Life seemed to love her. She had an easy way with people. Her laughter was infectious. She was beautiful."

"How beautiful?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't normally look at those things," Julienne evaded.

"But you noticed her."

"Well, it was impossible _not_ to notice her."

"Doctor Turner loved her very much, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"How did they meet?"

"Shouldn't you be asking him, Shelagh?"

Shelagh turned away to gather up the clothes she wanted to buy. There were not many of them; she didn't have a huge amount of money to spend, not even when it was as necessary as now. Patrick had offered to pay for them, but she didn't want to take his money; their relationship was so new, so young, that it felt wrong to assume too much. Already she was living in his home, eating his food, taking care of him and his son. If she were to take his money, were to sleep in his bed, then surely all of this would burst apart like a soap bubble and leave her alone and hurting.

"I have to go and pay for these, and then go to the hospital," she said, trying to move past Julienne.

The older woman would have none of it, and grabbed Shelagh's arm. "Stop thinking too much, my dear Shelagh. It doesn't do anybody any good."

"I know," Shelagh said, and forced a smile on her face. "Don't worry about me."

"Call me when you need me, all right?"

"All right. I really need to go now, though. It was lovely seeing you." Shelagh gave her a swift kiss on the cheek, then marched away to the counter to go and pay for her clothes.

 _She was beautiful and friendly and stylish,_ she thought, and felt very low.

She was in the storage room at the hospital when Patrick came to her. He slipped in and closed the door in a heartbeat. In another one, he had taken her in his arms and pressed their foreheads together.

"I had to see you," he whispered.

Her hand clawed at his lab coat as she steadied herself. "Did you?"

"Yes. I'll be working all night here. I won't see you at all when you go home as soon as your shift is done. I'll miss you." He kissed her tenderly.

She smiled against his mouth. "I'll miss you too."

"Did you buy some clothes?"

"Only a few."

"A few is better than none."

"Did Marianne… did she have a lot of clothes?"

He gave her a frown. "I suppose. Does it matter?"

"No." _Yes._

He let go of her and rubbed his eyes, giving a deep sigh. "I have to go back. Mrs Andersen is close to the second stage of labour." He kissed her mouth quickly. It was a dry peck.

"I… I love you," she said. He smiled at her and gave her a wink as he left her in the dark, dusty room.

Did he give Marianne such a cold kiss as he left her? Did he wink at her and smile when she told him she loved him, or did he say he loved her, too?

"You've got to stop this, this… this feverish obsession," she whispered. She pressed her palms against her burning eyes. "You've got to stop, Shelagh. You'll lose everything if you don't." The scar at the base of her leg throbbed in agreement.

 _A pale hand touching her foot._

 _Blood dripping on her naked skin._

 _The winter wind whistling through the twisted metal._

 _What's it saying? What is it whispering?_

"Think about something else, anything else. Don't let guilt rip you apart again."

 _A blood-flecked pink coat._

 _Two leather belts, one slim, one thick._

 _No feet._

"Not that. Stop it," she whispered.

But she couldn't.

She couldn't sleep that night, so she stalked into the living room, opened a window, and lit a cigarette. She smoked it down to the filter, then lit another one. She took one drag, then left it in the ashtray and watched how it burned down. It illuminated a little china dog that sat on the coffee table. Certainly only Marianne could have picked it out; it was a pretty little thing, dainty.

She sat watching for a very long time. She was snapped out of her reverie when the light was switched on.

"Shelagh?" Patrick whispered. He looked tired. His hair was ruffled by the wind. She wanted to drag her hand through it, touch his scalp with her fingertips.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't sleep," she murmured.

"It's freezing in here," Patrick said, and went to close the window.

"I'm sorry." She shivered, even though she didn't feel cold.

"Are you all right, darling? You're looking pale." He sat down on the couch next to her and felt her forehead with a large, dry hand. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

"I feel slightly out of sorts," she whispered.

"You're a bit feverish." He took her hands in his. "Your hands are cold." He took off his coat and put it around her shoulders. Being enveloped in his warmth and scent was enough to almost reduce her to tears. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"I'm not feeling very well," she murmured.

"You silly creature, opening a window in January. How long have you been sitting here? What if you had fallen asleep?"

 _He thinks me a child._

"I don't know, Patrick."

He slung his arm around her and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"I love you," she whispered, or thought, or dreamed.

"I'll warm you up and then take you to bed. You need your rest."

But they sat on the couch till the darkness dispelled in the east, his arm strong and reassuring around her, his hand intertwined with hers.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for being my beta!

Whilst Shelagh recovered from her cold they did not speak of Marianne again. Timothy brought her bowls of broth (no chicken), and slices of buttered toast. Patrick sat down on the edge of the bed and stroked her head, as if the touch of his rough hands alone could heal her.

Shelagh left the bed when they were not home, and did the washing, the dishes, and everything else that needed cleaning. It made her familiar with the house, and gave her hands something to do; she hated to sit still.

As she fingered the curtains Patrick's first wife had chosen, as she washed the cups she picked, watered the plants she loved, Shelagh felt as if she came to know Marianne intimately. Surely one could tell something about a woman by looking at the lamps she had chosen for her home, and the furniture, and the wallpaper?

One day, Shelagh washed the faces of the little stone lions that kept battered paperbacks propped up, and rewarded herself by opening one of the books. It was a volume of poetry. On the flyleaf, in a looping scrawl, Marianne had written

 _Pat– from Marianne. May 17th_

Did she call him 'Pat' rather than 'Patrick'? Was that the nickname she had for him? Had he called her 'Mary' in jest sometimes, rather than Marianne?

Shelagh traced the letters with a fingertip. The text was written diagonally over the page, as if Marianne had been in a hurry when she wrote it, and couldn't be bothered to pull the book straight. Her handwriting was beautiful, the 'M' large, its tail curling around the other letters of her name.

Shelagh hastily put the book away, feeling disgusted with herself.

Yet she could not stop her curiosity, could not stop thinking about Marianne and the woman she had been. Perhaps that was natural, seeing as she had been there when Marianne passed, and was now living in her house, loving her husband, caring for her son. But this was not mere curiosity, Shelagh knew; it sometimes seemed to border on obsession. It was as if Marianne gave her something she could focus on so that she did not have to examine something inside herself, something hurting and soiled with dripping blood.

 _A pale hand next to her foot._

 _Where had her socks with dinosaurs gone?_

 _The fingers twitched._

Though she and Patrick continued to kiss, and though he sometimes fondled her breasts, she never let him go any further, and still slept in the guest room. He was too much of a gentleman to ever push her for more.

 _Or maybe he thinks you too much of a child still,_ a mean voice told her, even though Shelagh knew deep inside that that was not true.

She had returned most of the clothes she'd bought that morning with Julienne, though, feeling that they somehow made her look puerile. She'd thrown out the shirt with the ketchup stain, too. She'd bought herself a softly knitted dress in navy that made her feel both secure and sexy instead, and wore it all the time. She wondered if Marianne would've liked it.

She still hadn't visited Patrick's bedroom, as if entering it was a violation of his trust, his privacy.

This changed the morning Shelagh was home alone, and Granny Parker decided to pay a visit.

Shelagh was folding laundry when the door opened. She frowned, and called out, "Patrick, is that you? You're early."

Her greeting was met with silence seemed to last a lifetime before it was broken by a soft voice. "No, it's Granny Parker."

 _Marianne's mother,_ Shelagh thought, heart giving a jolt. She went into the hallway. A small woman with a pink coat stood underneath the coat rack. She had grey curls, and gentle eyes.

"I'm sorry. Patrick didn't say you'd visit," Shelagh said, wringing her hands.

The woman smiled, giving her a puzzled glance. "I have a key." Her eyes looked Shelagh over. Her thin lips pursed.

 _She must be wondering what I'm doing here in her daughter's house._

She extended her hand. Granny Parker shook it. Her hand was small and cold, the back of it patterned with blue veins. "It's nice to meet you," Shelagh said, and gave her a tremulous smile. "I'm Shelagh Mannion. I'm a colleague of Patrick. There was a fire in my flat, which is why I'm temporarily living here." How much had Patrick told this woman? Probably nothing; otherwise, Granny Parker wouldn't have been surprised to see her here.

Granny Parker's wrinkled face was illuminated by a lovely smile. "Ah, Nurse Mannion! Patrick has told me some things about you."

 _What did he tell you?_

"Can I offer you something to drink?" Shelagh asked, digging her fingernails into her palm.

"No thank you, dearie. I just popped in to bring some food." She took up a plate that she'd temporarily placed on the little table next to the door. She folded the tin foil away to reveal a perfectly baked apple pie.

"Oh, that's lovely. I'm sure Patrick and Timothy will love it."

"Marianne used to bake a cake or pie every week," Granny Parker said.

"I… I was folding laundry. I'll go back to it and finish quickly, otherwise Patrick's shirts will crease," she mumbled, and quickly went back to her room. She'd spread the jumpers and jeans and other clothes over her bed.

Granny Parker followed her. "Let me help you with that, love. It always goes quicker when it's two people doing it."

"Oh, it's no trouble," Shelagh said, but how could she deny this woman who had more right to be here than she herself did?

Granny Parker quickly sorted through the clothes, dividing them in neat piles. She chuckled at a pair of pink socks. "Patrick was never the best with housework," she said.

"He does his best," Shelagh said.

"Of course he does, the dear. There's a lot he's learned since Marianne… passed away." Granny put a pile of Patrick's clothes in Shelagh's arms, taking some of his jeans and tucking them under her own as well.. "Come, let's put these away. It'll save you a lot of walking if I help you," she said, and left the guest room.

Dull, throbbing panic coursed through her. Part of her didn't want to see his bedroom, _their_ bedroom, but another part of her hungered for it.

 _You don't have much of a choice, at any rate. You can't let that poor old woman walk back and forth again by herself. Though maybe she just wants to make sure you're not sleeping in Marianne's bed._

And so Shelagh followed Granny Parker into the bedroom she'd been avoiding for days upon end.

She halted on the threshold and looked.

It was a pretty room, with tall windows and white curtains. The fresh morning light streamed in, throwing warm puddles on the floor. The bed with its white sheets was flanked by two little nightstands, one on each side. The one closest to the door was littered with handkerchiefs and bookmarks. A dog-eared copy of a James Bond novel lay crookedly, touching a plastic mug half-filled with water. [PD1] The nightstand closest to the windows was empty.

 _Her nightstand,_ Shelagh thought, and shuddered.

Granny Parker had opened the wardrobe, and was busy putting Patrick's clothes away. Shelagh willed herself to walk up to her and help her. Her fingers were numb as she handed the older woman the piles of jeans and shirts and jumpers. She trained her eyes on the floor, but they travelled up to the contents of the wardrobe almost automatically. The explosion of colour was like a slap to the face. Dress upon dress hung on its hanger, skirt after skirt, blouse after blouse.

"Her clothes were so pretty," Granny Parker whispered after she'd put the last pair of trousers away. She fingered a velvet sleeve with trembling fingers.

"They are," Shelagh said. Her mouth was dry.

"She loved clothes, Marianne did," Granny Parker went on. She took out a dress with little daisies and pressed it to her face. "I can still smell her. It's the perfume she always wore, and something all her own. Oh, she smelled lovely. She adored scented soaps, and wouldn't use anything else. No shower gels or foams for her!"

"I know," Shelagh whispered.

Granny Parker opened one of the drawers. It contained Marianne's nightgowns. They were all silken affairs with little bows and thin straps. Shelagh's stomach seemed to have shrunken to the size of a walnut. Granny Parker pulled one of them away to reveal a bar of soap. She smiled at Shelagh. "She always put a bar in her drawers, smart thing that she was."

"I see," Shelagh said. She felt weak, devoid of her own will.

"Feel it," Granny Parker said, holding out one of the nightgowns, the fabric bunched in her fist. "She never wore synthetic fabrics if she could help it."

Shelagh took it in her hand. A cloud of stale lavender came from it, making her sneeze. The fabric was cold and lifeless.

"He hasn't changed the room much since she died. I don't think he could bring himself to do it, to shift through her things and decide what to throw out and what to keep." Granny Parker turned her face to the window.

"I understand," Shelagh said. The nightgown was slippery in her cold, damp hands.

"You can hear the children play outside on the street in the summer from this room. Marianne loved to hear them play."

"She was beautiful, wasn't she?"

"She was a pretty little thing, sure enough, but she was also beautiful on the inside. Not many people are both." Granny Parker turned back to face Shelagh. She was crying. "She was my only child. I loved her so." She pressed her hands against her eyes and sobbed.

"I'm sorry," Shelagh said. She pulled Granny Parker's hands away from her face and stroked them with her thumbs. "You're not well. Let me take you down and make you a cup of tea."

"Why are you here?" Granny Parker asked. Her eyes were blood-shot. Her face was pale. The skin suddenly looked tight. "Are you in love with him?"

"I… I wouldn't…" Shelagh stammered.

"Patrick is in love with you, you know. I think you must know. Why else would a pretty young thing like yourself decide to stay with her colleague? Surely you must have friends in London who would do just a well."

Shelagh's heart made a little jump at that. Her fingers grew warmer. "I know. I love him, too."

"Then why…?" Granny Parker gestured helplessly at the unslept side of the bed, at the empty nightstand.

Shelagh coloured a little. "There's… I think there are things we need to work through first."

Granny Parker smiled and patted her hand affectionately. "I understand, dearie. It can't be easy for him to have another woman in his life. He loved Marianne more than anything in the world. Only Timothy could maybe beat Marianne on that score, but then that is a different kind of love, isn't it? True love like he had with Marianne… well, that's something we should all pray for to experience just once in our life. To want it twice sounds like greed. And you are so young still…"

Shelagh's smile grew cold on her face. "Yes," she whispered.

 _She doesn't mean it badly but..._

She turned away. "I'll make you some tea," she said. There was a headache brewing behind her eyes.

 _If I believe Granny Parker, Patrick will certainly never love me like his first wife,_ she thought. She kept thinking it all throughout the day, even after the older woman had left. Normally it would have inspired misery and feelings of self-loathing in her.

Today, it just made her angry.


	6. Chapter 6

**With all the travelling I did I'd almost forgotten today is Friday. Luckily my trusty beta purple-roses-words-and-love didn't forget!**

She waited till after Tim had gone to bed to confront Patrick.

Timothy and Patrick ate Granny Parker's apple pie with gusto, but Shelagh couldn't force a bite of it down her throat.

"You've gotten thin," Patrick said, and touched her hand lovingly. "You've got to eat something, darling."

But how could she when she kept replaying his mother-in-law's words in her head?

Maybe Patrick had simply been fed up with being lonely, and had confused that for being in love with Shelagh. Maybe he knew very well that he didn't love her like he'd loved Marianne, but he simply wanted someone to do the housework and ask him how his day had been, and maybe a little bit extra after they'd both retired to their mutual bedroom. Maybe that was why he was disappointed with Shelagh clinging to the guestroom.

 _All untrue,_ the voice of reason told her, but she was so angry that it was easy to drown out that little voice.

Patrick was sitting on the couch flicking through one of his medical journals when Shelagh decided she was ready to talk to him. She didn't sit down; she preferred to stand, preferred to be taller than he was for once.

"Why didn't you tell me Granny Parker had a key?" she asked. Her voice was sharper than intended, but she couldn't help it.

Patrick put the journal down and looked at her with knitted brows. "Shelagh?"

"Why didn't you tell me she could drop by?"

"Did something happen?"

Already tears were burning behind her eyelids. "She went on and on about Marianne."

Patrick rubbed his mouth. "And?"

"And? And?!" Shelagh bored her nails in her palms. "I found it upsetting, that's what!" she spat.

"Well, surely you two had a lot to talk about," Patrick bit back.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It seems to me you're obsessed with my first wife, Shelagh."

"How can't I be? She's everywhere in this bloody house, yet you never talk about her, though everyone tells me she was beautiful and clever and kind and intelligent. What am I supposed to make of that?"

Patrick stood, his face contorted in an angry mask. "I don't want to talk about this," he said.

"But I do!"

"And that's all that matters, isn't it? Doing what you want."

She blanched. "Don't be ridiculous. It's not as if…"

"You don't want sex, so we don't have sex. You want to stay in the guestroom, so I still sleep alone at night. You don't want to accept my money, so you only have the bare necessities to dress yourself with." He wagged her finger at her. "Don't make it out as if I am somehow the bad guy here."

Blood roared in her ears. How dare he wag his finger at her? She was his partner, not his daughter! And that condescending tone of voice he used with her was enough to drive any sane woman mad.

"Patrick Turner, if you're going to make this all about your insulted pride as a man…"

"That's what this is about, isn't it? You find me failing as a man."

"No I don't, it's simply that…"

"All this probing about Marianne; are you trying to find out if I treated her differently from you?"

"Well certainly you did! Even a blind man can see that you loved her very much, and how could I ever…"

"God, stop comparing! You behave like a child sometimes, do you know that?"

"And that gives you the right to treat me as a child? To wag your finger at me and…"

"What else am I…"

"Stop interrupting me!" she screamed, and knocked Marianne's little china dog from the coffee table as she brought her hands to her face. It bounced on the flour and fragmented in several curled shards. Shelagh stared at the pale petals of china with horror.

Patrick got to his knees with a grunt and started to gather up the pieces.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and stooped to help him.

"Leave it," Patrick growled.

She cut her hand on a jagged piece of china. Blood welled from the cut. "I'm sorry," she repeated.

He took her hand and put his handkerchief around it. His fingers were tender. "It's just a silly ornament."

"Was it Marianne's?" she whispered.

It was the wrong thing to say, but it leapt out of her mouth like a toad, just like the girl in the fairy tale, as if she had no control over it.

He let go of her hand. "Please leave me alone for a bit," he said, and started to gather up the pieces methodically. They clinked against each other as his rough hand cradled them.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

"Please, Shelagh."

She swayed as she got to her feet. Her vision was blurred by tears. The cut stung. She curled her fingers around his handkerchief as she went to her room, like a naughty child sent to bed without supper.

She sobbed as she pushed the door shut. She pulled her knitted dress over her head and flung it in a corner. Tears coursed over her cheeks as she slipped into her nightgown.

She sat down in the windowsill and pressed her burning forehead against the cool pane. This room didn't face the street, but looked over the little garden instead. The rosebush clung naked and shivering to the house, rattling its branches, clicking thorns against brick in the way an impatient woman would click her nails on a table top.

Shelagh removed her glasses. They had misted over from her hot tears. She unbound the handkerchief and stared at the pale sliver of skin. It slowly coloured pink as the cut started to bleed again. She'd have to disinfect it, but she couldn't bring herself to get up.

"You little fool," she murmured between sobs.

Blood dripped down her hand and landed on her sock. The fabric absorbed it greedily. Another drop fell, and another.

 _Dripping blood._

 _A pale, severed hand that twitched as she watched it._

 _A broken whisper. "Mummy?"_

"I can't do this," Shelagh whispered.

A small, cool hand felt her brow. Shelagh looked at the blurred woman that sat down next to her. Curls floated around her face. She had kind eyes.

"I'm very tired," Shelagh whispered.

"Of what, darling?" Marianne asked.

"Of going back to that day again and again."

"Why do you go back to it all the time?"

"Because it is my fault," Shelagh said. Her throat felt thick and dry. She wiped her cheek with her unhurt hand, pressed her knuckles in the soft flesh.

"It was an accident, Shelagh."

"And it was my fault it happened. I'm responsible."

"You were just a child."

"I killed my mother, Marianne. I couldn't save her, like I couldn't save you." She sobbed and shook her head.

"Sometimes there's nothing that can be done to save someone, Shelagh."

"Maybe that's what's going to happen to this relationship that Patrick and I've got. Maybe there's nothing can be done to save it."

"That's not true. You love him, don't you?" Marianne asked. She stroked Shelagh's shoulder.

"But he loves you more."

"What makes you think that?"

"This house. It's full of you. Your clothes still hang in the wardrobe, your books still stand on the shelves, your soap still lies in the bathroom…"

"You know Patrick can't clean and take care of a home."

"But it's been years. Granny Parker could've helped him."

"Do you think my mother would have had the strength?" Marianne asked, and shook her head mournfully. Her curls gleamed in the moonlight.

"No," Shelagh murmured. Her eyelids felt bruised. "But still it seems to me as if he loves you so fiercely, so strongly… a love like that can't happen a second time."

"And who decides that? My mother? Who made her an expert on such topics?"

Shelagh shrugged. "I don't know."

"It seems to me that you are sabotaging this relationship. You are punishing yourself, aren't you? But no matter how much you hurt yourself, you'll not get your mother back. She's in the past, but Patrick is here, and in your future. I'm in the past, but you are here, and are in his future. It's time to let go of the past."

"I can't," Shelagh said. The wound in her hand throbbed.

"You poor dear. You've been carrying it around for so long," Marianne said. She stroked Shelagh's hair. "It's time to let go of that weight. Let it go."

"I don't know how."

"Of course you do. You're already letting it slip through your fingers. Let these tears be your baptism into a new life not weighed down by regrets. You are free."

"Do you set me free?"

Marianne smiled. "No, darling. You set yourself free."

She went to the door. With every step she took she became more transparent. In the end she fell apart like mist on a lonely country road.

Shelagh felt infinitely lighter. "I am free," she said.

She looked at the spot where Marianne had disappeared.

She didn't have any feet. Ghosts rarely did.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing! This is the final chapter, guys. I hope it is satisfying!**

She went to Patrick's bedroom after she'd disinfected and bandaged her hand.

The door opened without a sound. Patrick hadn't drawn the curtains properly, and a shaft of moonlight sharp enough to cut yourself on sprawled on the bed beside him. He was on the side closest to the door.

 _Of course. That way he can go out and attend to emergencies without waking his wife._

She knelt down next to him and touched his shoulder.

He came awake instantly, squinting in the darkness. "Shelagh?" he whispered. He sat up and put on the little lamp on his nightstand. "Is something wrong?" There were lines in his face that stood in sharp relief because of the harsh light. He looked older than she was used to, drawn.

"I killed my mother, Patrick," she said. Her voice was hoarse from crying, but even though her chest was tight with hurt, it no longer felt as if something heavy was lying on top of it.

"What?" he said, his brows almost meeting as he frowned.

She took one of his hands, brought it to her mouth, and kissed it a few times in rapid succession.

"Shelagh, what are you saying? I'm sorry, darling, I should never have shouted at you, but…"

"My mother and father had had a fight. My mother took me, put me in the car, and drove away. We were supposed to go and stay with my grandmother for a bit. It had rained. The night was very cold, and the roads had frozen over. I…" She had to swallow. Her throat felt like barbed wire.

Patrick touched her face and wiped one of her tears away with his thumb.

"I kept begging my mother to turn back. I said it wasn't fair that Daddy wasn't with us; there was room enough in the car for him. I distracted her. She needed all her concentration to focus on the icy road. We got into an accident, and I've always felt responsible. I've always felt as if I've killed her."

"My darling, I'm sorry you had to go through that. I'm sorry you feel like that," Patrick whispered.

"There was so much blood. It was cold. My mother's hand lay twitching beside my feet…"

Her hands trembled. She clawed them in the sheets to still them.

"I found some relief in my faith. I prayed to God to give me a chance to make it up, somehow. And then Marianne was wheeled in that day, and I couldn't save her, like I hadn't been able to help my mother. And somehow you still loved me, even though she died. How's that fair?" Her voice broke. She swallowed. Something clicked in her throat. "I was so happy at first, but then the guilt came back. I needed to know what kind of woman Marianne was, I don't know why. Maybe I thought if she was a horrible woman, if you'd admit to me that your marriage was a sham, I'd somehow feel better. But she was nothing of the sort. Every word that told me that she was a wonderful person made me hate myself more."

"Why are you telling me this now, Shelagh?" Patrick asked. He stroked her knuckles with his thumb.

"Because I want to be happy, and how can I be happy without you? What we have can't be based on a lie, so you had to know this about me. I love you so much, Patrick, so so much…" She sobbed and buried her face in the blankets. Patrick stroked her head, tenderly caressing her scalp with his fingertips.

"Oh, darling." He pulled her up on the bed. She collapsed against him, her face against his throat as she sobbed. He held her close, rocking her a little. Her hand tangled in his pyjama shirt.

"I'm sorry. It's only natural you still grieve over her," Shelagh whispered between sobs.

"I'll never stop loving Marianne, but that doesn't mean I can't love you, too," he said.

"But how can you? I've been nothing but suspicious with you, nothing but distrusting…"

"You've been so many good things as well."

"So you won't leave me? You won't kick me out of our apartment tomorrow?" she asked, turning her tear-stained face towards his. His features were blurred; she wasn't wearing her glasses.

"Why would I do that?"

"Can you look at me and still tell me that you love me?" she whispered.

He cupped her face. "I love you, Shelagh. I love you." He kissed her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks and temples before capturing her mouth.

Something shifted between them. The air seemed full of electricity, raising the hairs on her arms, her legs, her neck. They kissed hungrily, desperately, as if they'd never see each other after this night, but Shelagh was not afraid. Patrick had loved Marianne, but he loved her now, had told her so himself, so what was there to fear?

He pulled her onto the bed with him and laid her down. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She took his hand and kissed his fingers. Her mouth was raw.

"It's gone," Patrick said, his thumb stroking her lips.

"What?"

"You no longer look lost," he answered.

"I'll never be lost again." I have you.

She folded her legs around his waist, her hips rocking lightly. There was want in her belly, fire in her skin.

"Do you want this?" he whispered, one hand already bunching up the fabric of her nightdress, ready to pull it up.

"Yes."

"Good. I've dreamed of this since New Year's Eve." He laughed, then kissed her nose. "Longer than New Year's Eve, if I'm perfectly honest."

She wanted to say something, but then his fingers started working their magic, and she became simple sensation.

His stubbled cheek grazing her throat.

His breath hot on her collar bones, her breasts.

His hand between her legs.

Pressure built and built till she was sure something inside her would snap. She could not be silent, just as the sea breaking on the shore could not help but make noise. She trembled like a reed. Patrick held her fast, his strong arms her shield against the world.

In the east, the sun was rising. Pink and purple rays fingered the tapestry of inky black and lifted it steadily. It was only then that Shelagh could bear to let go of him. She put on his bathrobe, went to the guestroom, and was back to his bedroom in less than five minutes.

"What is it, love?" Patrick asked, his voice rough with sleep.

"I want to stay here with you now."

He smiled. "That's good. The guestroom is for guests, but you're not a guest anymore."

She shook her head. "No, I'm not."

And she placed her paperweight on the nightstand that had once belonged to Marianne.


End file.
